PS 2837 
.H4 
1899 
Copy 1 



HERMIONJE- ■'.- 
^/VZ> OTHER POEMS 
. . . » BY EDWARD 
ROWLAND SILL 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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http://www.archive.org/details/hermioneotherpoeOOsill 



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POEMS. i6mo, $1.00; illuminated parchment 
paper, $1.00. 

THE HERMITAGE, and Later Poems. With 

Portrait. i6mo, $1.00 ; illuminated parchment 

paper, $1.00. 
1 

HERMIONE. and Other Poems. i6mo, #1.00. 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, 

v Boston and New York. 



H E R M I O N E 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 



EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

1899 



-f 5 






'632 



COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO. 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

rWO COPIES RECEIVED. 






APR 2 5 1899 



% O c\ 




NOTE 

N 1887 the publishers of this vol- 
ume issued a small collection of 
Mr. Sill's poems under the title 
Poems by Edward Rowland Sill. In the 
prefatory note a brief account was given 
of the poet and his productions, and atten- 
tion was drawn to the scattering of his 
poems during his lifetime in many forms 
of print and even with a variety of signa- 
tures. The volume then gathered was 
purposely small and gave a hint only of 
the activity of Mr. Sill's poetic nature. 

Two years later a.second collection was 
made, and published under the title The 
Hermitage, and Later Poems, with a tribu- 
tary lyric by Mr. Aldrich. These two 
volumes have won many readers, and the 
strong personal interest in Mr. Sill thus 
created has led to an urgent demand for 
a still further collection of his scattered 



iv Note 

poems. After a lapse of ten years, there- 
fore, the publishers present a third and 
final volume, in which they have endeav- 
ored to gather from print and manuscript 
such verses as may satisfy a demand cre- 
ated by reading an author who gave freely, 
but after all would have set light store 
upon many of his gifts. Thus the three 
volumes really contain a selection rather 
than a collection of Mr. Sill's poetical 
writings. 
March, 1899. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Hermione. 

I. The Lost Magic i 

II. Influences 2 

III. The Dead Letter 3 

IV. The Song in the Night .... 4 

Reproof in Love 5 

Tempted 6 

Alone 7 

To a Maid Demure 9 

The Coup de Grace 11 

The World runs round 13 

One Touch of Nature . 19 

The Crickets in the Fields .... 22 

Sunday 24 

On Second Thought 25 

His Lost Day 26 

Fertility 28 

The Mystery 30 

The Lost Bird 31 

Warning 34 

Summer Afternoon 36 

Summer Night 39 



vi Contents 

A Californian's Dreams 41 

Fulfillment 45 

The Singer 47 

The Things that will not die ... 49 

The Secret 53 

Lost Love 56 

Appreciated 58 

Moods 59 

Space 60 

Untimely Thought 61 

The Life Natural 63 

The Oracle 65 

Force 67 

Sundown 70 

Night and Peace 72 

The Singer's Confession 73 

Living 76 

Even There 78 

Summer Rain 80 

A Resting-Place 82 

A Memory 85 

The Open Window 87 

On a Picture of Mt. Shasta by Keith 89 

The Tree of My Life 94 

A Child and a Star 96 

At Dawn 98 

An Adage from the Orient 100 

A Paradox 101 



Contents vii 

The Philosopher 102 

A Bird's Song 103 

The Dead President 104 

Roland 107 



I 




HERMIONE 

i 

THE LOST MAGIC 

HITE in her snowy stone, and 
cold, 
With azure veins and shining 
arms, 
Pygmalion doth his bride behold, 

Rapt on her pure and sculptured 
charms. 

Ah ! in those half-divine old days 
Love still worked miracles for men ; 

The gods taught lovers wondrous ways 
To breathe a soul in marble then. 

He gazed, he yearned, he vowed, he wept. 

Some secret witchery touched her 
breast ; 
And, laughing April tears, she stepped 

Down to his arms and lay at rest. 



2 Hermione 

Dear artist of the storied land ! 

I too have loved a heart of stone. 
What was thy charm of voice or hand, 

Thy secret spell, Pygmalion ? 

II 

INFLUENCES 

If quiet autumn mornings would not come, 
With golden light, and haze, and harvest 

wain, 
And spices of the dead leaves at my feet ; 
If sunsets would not burn through cloud, 

and stain 
With fading rosy flush the dusky dome ; 
If the young mother would not croon that 

sweet 
Old sleep-song, like the robin's in the rain ; 
If the great cloud-ships would not float 

and drift 
Across such blue all the calm afternoon ; 
If night were not so hushed ; or if the 

moon 
Might pause forever by that pearly rift, 



The Dead Letter 3 

Nor fill the garden with its flood again ; 
If the world were not what it still must be, 
Then might I live forgetting love and 
thee. 

Ill 

THE DEAD LETTER 

The letter came at last. I carried it 

To the deep woods unopened. All the 

trees 
Were hushed, as if they waited what was 

writ, 
And feared for me. Silent they let me sit 
Among them ; leaning breathless while I 

read, 
And bending down above me where they 

stood. 
A long way off I heard the delicate tread 
Of the light-footed loiterer, the breeze, 
Come walking toward me in the leafy 

wood. 
I burned the page that brought me love 

and woe. 



4 Hermione 

At first it writhed to feel the spires of 

flame, 
Then lay quite still \ and o'er each word 

there came 
Its white ghost of the ash, and burning 

slow 
Each said : " You cannot kill the spirit ; 

know 
That we shall haunt you, even till heart 

and brain 
Lie as we lie in ashes — all in vain." 

IV 

THE SONG IN THE NIGHT 

In the deep night a little bird 
Wakens, or dreams he is awake : 

Cheerily clear one phrase is heard, 

And you almost feel the morning break. 

In the deep dark of loss and wrong, 
One face like a lovely dawn will thrill, 

And all night long at my heart a song 
Suddenly stirs and then is still. 




REPROOF IN LOVE 

ECAUSE we are shut out from 
light, 
Each of the other's look and 
smile ; 
Because the arms' and lips' delight 
Are past and dead, a weary while ; 

Because the dawn, that joy has brought, 
Brings now but certainty of pain, 

Nothing for you and me has bought 
The right to live our lives in vain. 

Take not away the only lure 

That leads me on my lonely way, 

To know you noble, sweet, and pure, 
Great in least service, day by day. 
5 




TEMPTED 

ES, I know what you say : 

Since it cannot be soul to soul, 
Be it flesh to flesh, as it may ; 
But is Earth the whole ? 



Shall a man betray the Past 
For all Earth gives ? 
" But the Past is dead ? " At last, 
It is all that lives. 

Which were the nobler goal — 
To snatch at the moment's bliss, 

Or to swear I will keep my soul 
Clean for her kiss ? 
6 



ALONE 




TILL earth turns and pulses stir, 
And each day hath its deed ; 
But if I be dead to her, 
What is the life I lead ? 



Cares the cuckoo for the wood, 
When the red leaves are down ? 

Stays the robin near the brood, 
When they are fledged and flown ? 

Yea, we live ; the common air 
To both its bounty brings. 

Mockery ! Can the absent share 
The half-forgotten things ? 

Barren comfort fancy doles 

To him that truly sees ; 
Sullen Earth can sever souls, 

Far as the Pleiades. 
7 



8 Alone 

Take thy toys, step-mother Earth, — 
Take force of limb and brain ; 

All thy gifts are little worth, 
Till her I find again. 

Grass may spring and buds may stir, 
Why should mine eyes take heed ? 

For if I be dead to her, 
Then am I dead indeed. 



TO A MAID DEMURE 




FTEN when the night is come, 
With its quiet group at home, 
While they broider, knit, or sew, 

Read, or chat in voices low, 

Suddenly you lift your eyes 

With an earnest look, and wise ; 

But I cannot read their lore, — 

Tell me less, or tell me more. 

Like a picture in a book, 
Pure and peaceful is your look, 
Quietly you walk your ways ; 
Steadfast duty fills the days. 
Neither tears nor fierce delights, 
Feverish days nor tossing nights, 
Any troublous dreams confess, — 
Tell me more, or tell me less. 

Swift the weeks are on the wing ; 
Years are brief, and love a thing 

9 



io To a Maid Demure 

Blooming, fading, like a flower ; 
Wake and seize the little hour. 
Give me welcome, or farewell ; 
Quick ! I wait ! And who can tell 
What to-morrow may befall, — 
Love me more, or not at all. 




THE COUP DE GRACE 

F I were very sure 
That all was over betwixt you 
and me — 
That, while this endless absence I en- 
dure 
With but one mood, one dream, one mis- 
ery 
Of waiting, you were happier to be free, — 

Then I might find again 
In cloud and stream and all the winds 
that blow, 
Yea, even in the faces of my fellow- 
men, 
The old companionship ; and I might know 
Once more the pulse of action, ere I go. 

But now I cannot rest, 
While this one pleading, querulous tone 
without 

ii 



12 The Coup de Grace 

Breaks in and mars the music in my 

breast. 
I open the closed door — lo ! all about, 
What seem your lingering footprints ; then 

I doubt. 

Waken me from this sleep ! 
Strike fearless, let the naked truth-edge 
gleam ! 
For while the beautiful old past I keep, 
I am a phantom, and all mortals seem 
But phantoms, and my life fades as a 
dream. 




THE WORLD RUNS ROUND 1 

HE world runs round, 
And the world runs well ; 
And at heaven's bound, 
Weaving what the hours shall tell 
Of the future way, 
Sit the great Norns, sisters gray. 
Now a thread of doom and hate, 
Now a skein of life and love, — 
Whether hearing shriek or psalm, 
Hearts that curse or pray, 
Most composed and very calm 
Is their weaving, soon and late. 

One man's noisy years go by, 
Rich to the crowd's shallow eye, 
Full of big and empty sound, 

l For the Anniversary of the Overland Magazine, 
San Francisco, 1884. 

!3 



14 The World Runs Round 

Brandished gesture, voice profound, 

Blustering benevolence, 

Thin in deeds, and poor in pence. 

Out of it all, so loud and long, 

What one thread that 's clean and strong 

To weave the coming good, 

Can the great Norns find ? 

But where some poor child stood, 

And shrank, and wept its faultiness, 

Out of that little life so blind 

The great web takes a golden strand 

That shall shine and that shall stand 

The whole wide world to bless. 

One man walks in silk : 

Honey and milk 

Flow thro' his days. 

Corn loads his wains, 

He hath all men's praise, 

He sees his heart's desire. 

In all his veins 

What can the sorrowful Norns 

Find of heroic fire ? 



The World Runs Round 15 

Another finds his ways 
All blocked and barred. 
Lonely, he grapples hard, 
Sets teeth and bleeds. 
Then the glad Norns 
Know he succeeds, 
With victory wrought 
Greater than that he sought. 

When will the world believe 

Force is for him that is met and fought : 

Storm hath no song till the pine resists ; 

Lightning no flame when it runs as it lists ; 

So do the wise Norns weave. 

The world runs round, 

And the world runs well : 

It needs no prophet, when evil is found, 

Good to foretell. 

Many the voices 
Ruffling the air : 
This one rejoices, 
That in despair 



1 6 The World Runs Round 

Past the sky-bars 
Climbs to the stars. 

One voice is heard 
By the ocean's shore, 
Speaking a word 
Quiet and sane, 
Amid the human rush and roar 
Like a robin's song in the rain. 
The red gold of the sun 
Seems to stream in power 
Already from behind the shower 
When that song's begun. 

It doth not insist, or claim ; 

You may hear, or go : 

It clamors not for gain or fame, 

Tranquilly and slow 

It speaketh unafraid, 

Calls the spade, spade, 

With the large sense mature 

Of him that hath both sat, and roved, 

And with a solemn undercurrent pure, 

As his that now hath lived and loved. 



The World Runs Round 1 7 

Brightened with glimpse and gleam 

Of mother-wit — 

There is more salt in it, 

More germ and sperm 

Of the great things to be, 

Than louder notes men speak and sing. 

It is a voice of Spring, 

Clear and firm. 

Tones prophetic in it flow, 

Steady and strong, 

Yet soft and low — 

An excellent thing in song. 

" I can wait," saith merry Spring, 

If the rain runneth, and the wind hum- 

meth, 
And the mount at morn be hoar with 

snow, 
In the frost the violet dozes, 
Wind and rain bear breath of roses, 
And the great summer cometh 
Wherein all things shall gayly bloom and 

grow. 



1 8 The World Runs Round 

Long may the voice be found, 
Potent its spell, 
While the world runs round, 
And the world runs well. 




ONE TOUCH OF NATURE 

RUEL and wild the battle : 
Great horses plunged and reared, 
And through dust - cloud and 
smoke-cloud, 
Blood-red with sunset's angry flush, 
You heard the gun-shots rattle, 
And, 'mid hoof-tramp and rush, 
The shrieks of women speared. 

For it was Russ and Turkoman, — 
No quarter asked or given ; 
A whirl of frenzied hate and death 
Across the desert driven. 
Look ! the half-naked horde gives way, 
Fleeing frantic without breath, 
Or hope, or will ; and on behind 
The troopers storm, in blood-thirst blind, 
While, like a dreadful fountain-play, 

19 



20 One Touch of Nature 

The swords flash up, and fall, and slay — 
Wives, grandsires, baby brows and gray, 
Groan after groan, yell upon yell — 
Are men but fiends, and is earth hell ? 

Nay, for out of the flight and fear 

Spurs a Russian cuirassier ; 

In his arms a child he bears. 

Her little foot bleeds ; stern she stares 

Back at the ruin of her race. 

The small hurt creature sheds no tear, 

Nor utters cry ; but clinging still 

To this one arm that does not kill, 

She stares back with her baby face. 

Apart, fenced round with ruined gear, 
The hurrying horseman finds a space, 
Where, with face crouched upon her knee, 
A woman cowers. You see him stoop 
And reach the child down tenderly, 
Then dash away to join his troop. 

How came one pulse of pity there — 
One heart that would not slay, but save — 



One Touch of Nature 21 

In all that Christ-forgotten sight ? 
Was there, far north by Neva's wave, 
Some Russian girl in sleep-robes white, 
Making her peaceful evening prayer, 
That Heaven's great mercy 'neath its care 
Would keep and cover him to-night ? 




THE CRICKETS IN THE FIELDS 

NE, or a thousand voices ? — fill- 
ing noon 
With such an undersong and 
drowsy chant 
As sings in ears that waken from a swoon, 
And know not yet which world such 

murmurs haunt : 
Single, then double beats, reiterant ; 
Far off and near; one ceaseless, change- 
less tune. 

If bird or breeze awake the dreamy will 

We lose the song, as it had never been ; 
Then suddenly we find 't is singing still 
And had not ceased. So, friend of 

mine, within 
My thoughts one underthought, beneath 
the din 
Of life, doth every quiet moment fill. 

22 



The Crickets in the Fields 23 

Thy voice is far, thy face is hid from me, 
But day and night are full of dreams of 
thee. 




SUNDAY 

OT a dread cavern, hoar with 
damp and mould, 
Where I must creep, and in the 
dark and cold, 
Offer some awful incense at a shrine 
That hath no more divine 
Than that 'tis far from life, and stern, 
and old ; 

But a bright hill-top in the breezy air, 
Full of the morning freshness high and 
clear, 
Where I may climb and drink the pure, 

new day, 
And see where winds away 
The path that God would send me, shin- 
ing fair. 

24 




ON SECOND THOUGHT 

PH^IJHE end 's so near, 
It is all one 
What track I steer, 
What work 's begun. 
It is all one 
If nothing 's done, 
The end 's so near ! 

The end 's so near, 
It is all one 

What track thou steer, 
What work 's begun — 
Some deed, some plan, 
As thou 'rt a man ! 

The end 's so near ! 
2 5 




HIS LOST DAY 

ROWING old, and looking back 
Wistfully along his track, 
I have heard him try to tell, 

With a smile a little grim, 

Why a world he loved so well 

Had no larger fruit of him : — 

'Twas one summer, when the time 
Loitered like drowsy rhyme, 
Sauntering on his idle way 
Somehow he had lost a day. 
Whether 't was the daisies meek, 
Keeping Sabbath all the week, 
Birds without one work-day even, 
Or the little pagan bees, 
Busy all the sunny seven, — 
Whether sleep at afternoon, 
Or much rising with the moon, 
Couching with the morning star, 

26 



His Lost Day 27 

Or enchantments like to these, 
Had confused his calendar, — 

" It is Saturday," men said. 
"Nay, 'tis Friday," obstinate 
Clung the notion in his head. 
Had the cloudy sisters three 
In their weaving of his fate, 
Dozed, and dropped a stitch astray ? 

" 'T was the losing of that day 
Cost my fortune," he would say. 
" On that day I should have writ 
Screeds of wisdom and of wit ; 
Should have sung the missing song, 
Wonderful, and sweet, and strong ; 
Might have solved men's doubt and dream 
With some waiting truth supreme. 
If another thing there be 
That a groping hand may miss 
In a twilight world like this, 
Those lost hours its grace and glee 
Surely would have brought to me." 




FERTILITY 

LEAR water on smooth rock 
Could give no foot-hold for a 
single flower, 

Or slenderest shaft of grain: 

The stone must crumble under storm and 
rain — 

The forests crash beneath the whirlwind's 
power — 

And broken boughs from many a tempest- 
shock, 

And fallen leaves of many a wintry hour, 

Must mingle in the mould, 

Before the harvest whitens on the plain, 

Bearing an hundred-fold. 

Patience, O weary heart ! 

Let all thy sparkling hours depart, 

And all thy hopes be withered with the 
frost, 

And every effort tempest-tost — 



Fertility 29 

So, when all life's green leaves 

Are fallen, and mouldered underneath the 

sod, 
Thou shalt go not too lightly to thy God, 
But heavy with full sheaves. 




THE MYSTERY 

NEVER know why 'tis I love 
thee so : 
I do not think 'tis that thine 
eyes for me 
Grow bright as sudden sunshine on the 
sea; 
Nor for thy rose-leaf lips, or breast of 

snow, 
Or voice like quiet waters where they flow. 

So why I love thee well I cannot tell : 
Only it is that when thou speak'st to me 
'Tis thy voice speaks, and when thy 
face I see 
It is thy face I see ; and it befell 
Thou wert, and I was, and I love thee 
well. 

30 




THE LOST BIRD 

HAT cared she for the free 
hearts ? She would comfort 
The prisoned one : 
What recked I of the wanton other sing- 
ers ? 
She sang for me alone — 
Was all my own, my own ! 

But when they loaded me with heavier 
fetters, 
And chained I lay, 
How could she know I longed to reach 
her window ? 
Athirst the livelong day, 
At eve she fled away. 

Still stands her cage wide open at the 
casement, 
In sun and rain, 



32 The Lost Bird 

Though years have gone, and rust has 
thickly gathered, — 
My watching all in vain ; 
She will not come again. 

Against its wires I strum with idle fin- 
gers 
From morn to noon ; 
I swing the door with loitering touch, 
and listen 
To hear that old-time tune, 
Sweet as the soul of June. 

My bird, my silver voice that cheered 
my prison, 
Hushed, lost to me : 
And still I wait for death, in chains, for- 
saken, 
(Soon may the summons be !) 
But she is free. 

— " Is free ? " 

Nay, in the palace porches caught and 
hanging, 



The Lost Bird 33 

Who says ? t is gay — 
The song the false prince hears? who 
says her singing, 
From day to summer day, 
Grieves not her heart away ? 

But when my dream comes true in that 
last sleeping, 
And death makes free, 
Against the blue shall snowy wings come 
sweeping, 
My bird flown back to me, 
Mine for eternity ! 




WARNING 

E true to me ! For there will 

dawn a day 
When thou wilt find the faith 
that now I see. 
Bow at the shrines where I must bend 

the knee, 
Knowing the great from small. Then 

lest thou say, 
" Ah me, that I had never flung away 
His love who would have stood so close 

to me 
Where now I walk alone " — lest there 

should be 
Such vain regret, Love, oh be true ! But 

nay, 
Not true to me : true to thine own high 

quest 
Of truth • the aspiration in thy breast, 
Noble and blind, that pushes by my hand, 

34 



Warning 35 

And will not lean, yet cannot surely 

stand ; 
True to thine own pure heart, as mine to 

thee 
Beats true. So shalt thou best be true 

to me. 




SUMMER AFTERNOON 

AR in hollow mountain canons 
Brood with purple-folded pinions, 
Flocks of drowsy distance-colors 
on their nests ; 
And the bare round slopes for forests 
Have cloud-shadows, floating forests, 
On their breasts. 

Winds are wakening and dying, 
Questions low with low replying, 
Through the oak a hushed and trem- 
bling whisper goes : 
Faint and rich the air with odors, 
Hyacinth and spicy odors 
Of the rose. 

Even the flowerless acacia 
Is one flower — such slender stature, 
With its latticed leaves a-tremble in the 
sun: 

36 



Summer Afternoon 37 

They have shower-drops for blossoms, 
Quivering globes of diamond-blossoms, 
Every one. 

In the blue of heaven holy 
Clouds go floating, floating slowly, 
Pure in snowy robe and sunny silver 
crown ; 
And they seem like gentle angels — 
Leisure-full and loitering angels, 
Looking down. 

Half the birds are wild with singing, 
And the rest with rhythmic winging 
Sing in melody of motion to the sight ; 
Every little sparrow twitters, 
Cheerily chirps, and cheeps, and twit- 
ters 

His delight. 

Sad at heart amid the splendor, 
Dull to all the radiance tender, 
What can I for such a world give back 
again ? 



38 Summer Afternoon 

Could I only hint the beauty — 
Some least shadow of the beauty, 
Unto men ! 




SUMMER NIGHT 

ROM the warm garden in the 
summer night 
All faintest odors came : the tube- 
rose white 
Glimmered in its dark bed, and many a 

bloom 
Invisibly breathed spices on the gloom. 
It stirred a trouble in the man's dull 

heart, 
A vexing, mute unrest : " Now what thou 

art, 
Tell me ! " he said in anger. Something 

sighed, 
" I am the poor ghost of a ghost that died 
In years gone by." And he recalled of 

old 
A passion dead — long dead, even then — 

that came 
And haunted many a night like this, the 
same 

39 



40 Summer Night 

In their dim hush above the fragrant 

mould 
And glimmering flowers, and troubled all 

his breast. 
" Rest ! " then he cried ; " perturbed spirit, 

rest ! " 




A CALIFORNIAN'S DREAMS 

THUNDER-STORM of the 

olden days ! 
The red sun sinks in a sleepy 
haze ; 
The sultry twilight, close and still, 
Muffles the cricket's drowsy trill. 
Then a round-topped cloud rolls up the 

west, 
Black to its smouldering, ashy crest, 
And the chariot of the storm you hear, 
With its jarring axle rumbling near ; 
Till the blue is hid, and here and there 
The sudden, blinding lightnings glare. 
Scattering now the big drops fall, 
Till the rushing rain in a silver wall 
Blurs the line of the bending elms, 
Then blots them out and the landscape 

whelms. 
A flash — a clap, and a rumbling peal : 
The broken clouds the blue reveal ; 

41 



42 A Californian's Dreams 

The last bright drops fall far away, 
And the wind, that had slept for heat all 

day, 
With a long-drawn sigh awakes again 
And drinks the cool of the blessed rain. 

November ! night, and a sleety storm : 
Close are the ruddy curtains, warm 
And rich in the glow of the roaring grate. 
It may howl outside like a baffled fate, 
And rage on the roof, and lash the pane 
With its fierce and impotent wrath in 

vain. 
Sitting within at our royal ease 
We sing to the chime of the ivory keys, 
And feast our hearts from script and 

score 
With the wealth of the mellow hearts of 

yore. 

A winter's night on a world of snow ! 
Not a sound above, not a stir below : 
The moon hangs white in the icy air ; 
And the shadows are motionless every- 
where. 



A Californian's Dreams 43 

Is this the planet that we know — 
This silent floor of the ghostly snow ? 
Or is this the moon, so still and dead, 
And yonder orb far overhead, 
With its silver map of plain and sea, 
Is that the earth where we used to be ? 
Shall we float away in the frosty blue 
To that living, summer world we knew, 
With its full, hot heart-beats as of old, 
Or be frozen phantoms of the cold ? 

A river of ice, all blue and glare, 
Under a star-shine dim and rare. 
The sheeny sheet in the sparkling light 
Is ribbed with slender wisps of white — 
Crinkles of snow, that the flying steel 
Lightly crunches with ringing heel. 
Swinging swift as the swallows skim, 
You round the shadowy river's rim : 
Falling somewhere out of the sky 
Hollow and weird is the owlet's cry ; 
The gloaming woods seem phantom hosts, 
And the bushes cower in the snow like 
ghosts. 



44 A Calif ornian' s Dreams 

Till the tinkling feet that with you glide 
Skate closer and closer to your side, 
And something steals from a furry muff, 
And you clasp it and cannot wonder 

enough 
That a little palm so soft and fair 
Could keep so warm in the frosty air. 

'T is thus we dream in our tranquil clime, 
Rooted still in the olden time \ 
Longing for all those glooms and gleams 
Of passionate Nature's mad extremes. 
Or was it only our hearts, that swelled 
With the youth and life and love they 
held? 



FULFILLMENT 

IT^ppLL the skies had gloomed in gray, 
j* Many a week, day after day. 
Nothing came the blank to fill, 
Nothing stirred the stagnant will. 
Winds were raw ; buds would not swell : 
Some malign and sullen spell 
Soured the currents of the year, 
And filled the heart with lurking fear. 

In his room he moped and glowered, 
Where the leaden daylight lowered \ 
Drummed the casement, turned his book, 
Hating nature's hostile look. 

Suddenly there came a day 
When he flung his gloom away. 
Something hinted help was near : 
Winds were fresh and sky was clear ; 
Light he stepped, and firmly planned, — 
Some good news was close at hand 
45 



46 Fulfillment 

Truly : for when day was done, 
He was lying all alone, 
Fretted pulse had ceased to beat, 
Very still were hands and feet, 
And the robins through the long 
Twilight sang his slumber song. 



THE SINGER 




ILLY bird ! 
When his mate is near, 
Not a note of singing shall you 
hear. 
Take his little love away, 
Half the livelong day 
Will his tune be heard — 
Silly bird ! 

Sunny days 

Silent basks he in the light, 
Little sybarite ! 
But when all the room 
Darkens in the gloom, 
And the rain 

Pours and pours along the pane, 
He is bent 

(Ah, the small inconsequent !) 
On defying all the weather ■ 
47 



48 The Singer 

Rain and cloud and storm together 

Naught to him, 

Singing like the seraphim. 

So we know a poet's ways : 

Sunny days, 

Silent he 

In his fine serenity ; 

But if winds are loud, 

He will pipe beneath the cloud ; 

And if one is far away, 

Sings his heart out, as to say, — 

" It may be 

She will hear and come to me." 



THE THINGS THAT WILL NOT 
DIE 




HAT am I glad will stay when I 
have passed 
From this dear valley of the 
world, and stand 
On yon snow-glimmering peaks, and linger- 
ing cast 
From that dim land 
A backward look, and haply stretch my 
hand, 
Regretful, now the wish comes true at 
last? 



Sweet strains of music I am glad will be 
Still wandering down the wind, for men 
will hear 
And think themselves from all their care 
set free, 
And heaven near 
49 



50 The Things that will not Die 

When summer stars burn very still and 
clear, 
And waves of sound are swelling like the 
sea. 

And it is good to know that overhead 
Blue skies will brighten, and the sun 
will shine, 
And flowers be sweet in many a garden 
bed, 
And all divine, 
(For are they not, O Father, thoughts 
of thine ?) 
Earth's warmth and fragrance shall on 
men be shed. 

And I am glad that Night will always 
come, 
Hushing all sounds, even the soft-voiced 
birds, 
Putting away all light from her deep dome, 
Until are heard 
In the wide starlight's stillness, un- 
known words, 



The Things that will not Die 5/ 

That make the heart ache till it find its 
home. 



And I am glad that neither golden sky, 

Nor violet lights that linger on the hill, 
Nor ocean's wistful blue shall satisfy, 
But they shall fill 
With wild unrest and endless longing 
still. 
The soul whose hope beyond them all 
must lie. 

And I rejoice that love shall never seem 

So perfect as it ever was to be, 
But endlessly that inner haunting dream 
Each heart shall see 
Hinted in every dawn's fresh purity, 
Hopelessly shadowed in each sunset's 
gleam. 

And though warm mouths will kiss and 
hands will cling, 
And thought by silent thought be under- 
stood, 



52 The Things that will not Die 

I do rejoice that the next hour will bring 
That far off mood, 
That drives one like a lonely child to 
God, 
Who only sees and measures everything. 

And it is well that when these feet have 

pressed 
The outward path from earth, 'twill not 

seem sad 
To them that stay ; but they who love me 
best 
Will be most glad 
That such a long unquiet now has had, 
At last, a gift of perfect peace and rest 




THE SECRET 

TIDE of sun and song in beauty 
broke 

Against a bitter heart, where no 
voice woke 

Till thus it spoke : — 



What was it, in the old time that I know, 
That made the world with inner beauty 
glow, 
Now a vain show ? 

Still dance the shadows on the grass at 

play, 
Still move the clouds like great, calm 

thoughts away, 
Nor haste, nor stay. 

But I have lost that breath within the 
gale, 

53 



54 The Secret 

That light to which the daylight was a veil, 
The star-shine pale. 

Still all the summer with its songs is 

filled, 
But that delicious undertone they held — 
Why is it stilled ? 

Then I took heart that I would find again 
The voices that had long in silence lain, 
Nor live in vain. 

I stood at noonday in the hollow wind, 
Listened at midnight, straining heart and 
mind 
If I might find ! 

But all in vain I sought, at eve and morn, 
On sunny seas, in dripping woods forlorn, 
Till tired and worn, 

One day I left my solitary tent 
And down into the world's bright garden 
went, 
On labor bent. 



The Secret 55 

The dew stars and the buds about my feet 
Began their old bright message to repeat, 
In odors sweet ; 

And as I worked at weed and root in 

glee, 
Now humming and now whistling cheerily, 
It came to me, — 

The secret of the glory that was fled 
Shone like a sweep of sun all overhead, 
And something said, — 

"The blessing came because it was not 

sought ; 
There was no care if thou wert blest or 

not : 
The beauty and the wonder all thy 

thought, — 
Thyself forgot." 



tsSP 


m 



LOST LOVE 

URY it, and sift 

Dust upon its light, - 
Death must not be left, 
To offend the sight. 



Cover the old love — 
Weep not on the mound - 

Grass shall grow above, 
Lilies spring around. 

Can we fight the law, 

Can our natures change - 

Half-way through withdraw 
Other lives exchange ? 



You and I must do 
As the world has done, 

There is nothing new 
Underneath the sun. 
56 



Lost Love 57 

Fill the grave up full — 
Put the dead love by — . 

Not that men are dull, 
Not that women lie, — 

But 'tis well and right — 

Safest, you will find — 
That the Out of Sight 

Should be Out of Mind. 




APPRECIATED 

H, could I but be understood ! " 
(I prayed the powers above) 
" Could but some spirit, bright 
and good, 
Know me and, knowing, love ! " 

One summer's day there came to pass — 

A maid ; and it befell 
She spied and knew me : yea, alas ! 

She knew me all too well. 

Gray were the eyes of Rosamund, 

And I could see them see 
Through and through me, and beyond, 

And care no more for me. 
58 




MOODS 

AWN has blossomed : the sun is 
nigh : 

Pearl and rose in the wimpled 
sky, 
Rose and pearl on a brightening blue : 
(She is true, and she is true !) 

The noonday lies all warm and still 
And calm, and over sleeping hill 
And wheatfields falls a dreamy hue : 
(If she be true — if she be true !) 

The patient evening comes, most sad and 

fair : 
Veiled are the stars : the dim and quiet air 
Breathes bitter scents of hidden myrrh 

and rue : 
(If she were true — if she were only 

true ! ) 

59 



SPACE 




LACK, frost-cold distance, sparse- 
ly honey-combed 
With hollow shells of glimmer- 
ing golden light ; 
Mere amber bubbles floating through 
the night, 
Lit by one centred sparkle, azure-domed, 
With circling motes where life hath lodged 



and roamed. 



60 




UNTIMELY THOUGHT 

LOOKED across the lawn one 
summer's day, 
Deep shadowed, dreaming in 
the drowsy light, 
And thought, what if this afternoon, so 
bright 
And still, should end it ? — as it may. 

Blue dome, and flocks of fleece that slowly 
pass 
Before the pale old moon, the while she 

keeps 
Her sleepy watch, and ancient pear that 
sweeps 
Its low, fruit-laden skirts along the grass. 

What if I had to say to all of these, 

"So this is the last time" — suddenly 
there 

61 



62 Untimely Thought 

My love came loitering under the great 
trees ; 

And now the thought I could no longer 
bear : * 

Startled I flung it from me, as one flings 
All sharply from the hand a bee that 
stings. 




THE LIFE NATURAL 

VERHEAD the leaf-song, on the 
upland slope ; 
Over that the azure, clean from 
base to cope ; 
Belle the mare beside me, drowsy from 
her lope. 

Goldy-green the wheat-field, like a fluted 

wall 
In the pleasant wind, with waves that rise 

and fall, 
" Moving all together," if it " move at all." 

Shakspere in my pocket, lest I feel alone, 
Lest the brooding landscape take a som- 
bre tone j 
Good to have a poet to fall back upon ! 

But the vivid beauty makes the book 
absurd : 

63 



64 The Life Natural 

What beside the real world is the written 

word ? 
Keep the page till winter, when no thrush 

is heard ! 

Why read Hamlet here ? — what ? s Hecuba 

to me ? 
Let me read the grain-field ; let me read 

the tree ; 
Let me read mine own heart, deep as I 

can see. 




THE ORACLE 

OWN in its crystal hollow 

Gleams the ebon well of ink : 
In the deepest drop lies lurking 
The thought all men shall think. 

Fair on the waiting tablet 
Lies the empty paper's space : 

Out of its snow shall flush a word 
Like an angel's earnest face. 

Who in those depths shall cast his line 
For the gnome that hugs that thought ? 

Who from the snowy field shall charm 
That flower of truth untaught ? 

Not in the lore of the ancients, 

Not in the yesterday : 
On the lips of the living moments 

The gods their message lay. 
65 



66 The Oracle 

Somewhere near it is waiting, 

Like a night-wind wandering free, 

Seeking a mouth to speak through, — 
Whose shall the message be ? 

It may steal forth like a flute note, 

It may be suddenly hurled 
In blare upon blare of a trumpet blast, 

To startle and stir the world. 

Hark ! but just on the other side 
Some thinnest wall of dreams, 

Murmurs a whispered music, 
And softest rose-light gleams. 

Listen, and watch, and tell the world 
What it almost dies to know : 

Or wait — and the wise old world will say, 
" I knew it long ago." 




FORCE 

HE stars know a secret 

They do not tell ; 
And morn brings a message 
Hidden well. 



There 's a blush on the apple, 

A tint on the wing, 
And the bright wind whistles, 

And the pulses sting. 

Perish dark memories ! 

There 's light ahead ; 
This world 's for the living ■ 

Not for the dead. 

In the shining city, 

On the loud pave, 
The life-tide is running 

Like a leaping wave. 

6 7 



68 Force 

How the stream quickens, 
As noon draws near, 

No room for loiterers, 
No time for fear. 

Out on the farm lands 
Earth smiles as well ; 

Gold-crusted grain-fields, 
With sweet, warm smell ; 

Whir of the reaper, 
Like a giant bee ; 

Like a Titan cricket, 
Thrilling with glee, 

On mart and meadow, 
Pavement or plain ; 

On azure mountain, 
Or azure main — 

Heaven bends in blessing ; 

Lost is but won ; 
Goes the good rain-cloud, 

Comes the good sun ! 



Force 6g 

Only babes whimper, 

And sick men wail, 
And faint hearts and feeble hearts, 

And weaklings fail. 

Down the great currents 

Let the boat swing ; 
There was never winter 

But brought the spring. 




SUNDOWN 

SEA of splendor in the West, 
Purple, and pearl, and gold, 
With milk-white ships of cloud, 
whose sails 
Slowly the winds unfold. 

Brown cirrus-bars, like ribbed beach-sand, 

Cross the blue upper dome j 
And nearer flecks of feathery white 

Blow over them like foam. 

But when that transient glory dies 

Into the twilight gray, 
And leaves me on the beach alone 

Beside the glimmering bay ; 

And when I know that, late or soon, 

Love's glory finds a grave, 
And hearts that danced like dancing foam 

Break like the breaking wave ; 
70 



Sundown Ji 

A little drean T , homeless thought 

Creeps sadly over me, 
Like the shadow of a lonely cloud 

Moving along the sea. 




NIGHT AND PEACE 

IGHT in the woods, — night : 
Peace, peace on the plain. 
The last red sunset beam 
Belts the tall beech with gold ; 
The quiet kine are in the fold, 
And stilly flows the stream. 

Soon shall we see the stars again, 
For one more day down to its rest has 
lain, 
And all its cares have taken flight, 

And all its doubt and pain. 
Night in the woods, — night : 
Peace, peace on the plain. 
72 




THE SINGER'S CONFESSION 

NCE he cried to all the hills and 
waters 
And the tossing grain and tufted 
grasses : 
"Take my message — tell it to my bro- 
thers ! 
Stricken mute I cannot speak my mes- 
sage. 
When the evening wind comes back from 

ocean, 
Singing surf-songs, to Earth's fragrant 

bosom, 
And the beautiful young human creatures 
Gather at the mother feet of Nature, 
Gazing with their pure and wistful faces, 
Tell the old heroic human story. 
When they weary of the wheels of science, 
Grinding, jangling their harsh disso- 
nances, — 

73 



J4 The Singer's Confession 

Stones and bones and alkalis and 
atoms, — 

Sing to them of human hope and passion ; 

And the soul divine, whose incarnation, 

Born of love — alas ! my message stum- 
bles, 

Faints on faltering lips : Oh, speak it for 
me!" 

Then a hush fell ; and around about him 
Suddenly he felt the mighty shadow 
Of the hills, like grave and silent pity ; 
And, as one who sees without regarding, 
The wide wind went over him and left 

him, 
And the brook, repeating low, " His mes- 
sage ! " 
Babbled, as it fled, a quiet laughter. 

What was he, that he had touched their 

message — 
Theirs, who had been chanting it forever: 
With whose organ-tones the human spirit 
Had eternally been overflowing ! 



Tlje Singer's Confession y? 

Then, with shame that stung in cheek and 
forehead, 

Slow he crept away. 

And now he listens, 

Mute and still, to hear them tell their 
message — 

All the holy hills and sacred waters ; 

When the sea-wind swings its evening 
censer, 

Till the misty incense hides the altar 

And the long-robed shadows, lowly kneel- 
ing. 




LIVING 

0-DAY," I thought, " I will not 
plan nor strive ; 
Idle as yon blue sky, or clouds 
that go 
Like loitering ships, with sails as white as 

snow, 
I simply will be glad to be alive. ,, 

For, year by year, in steady summer glow 
The flowers had bloomed, and life had 

stored its hive, 
But tasted not the honey. Quite to thrive, 
The flavor of my thrift I now would 

know. 

But the good breeze blew in a friend — a 

boon 
At any hour. There was a book to show, 
A gift to take, a slender one to give. 

7 6 



Living yy 

The morning passed to mellow afternoon, 
And that to twilight; it was sleep-time 

soon, — 
And lo ! again I had forgot to live. 




EVEN THERE 

TROOP of babes in Summer- 
Land, 
At heaven's gate — the chil- 
dren's gate : 
One lifts the latch with rosy hand, 

Then turns and, dimpling, asks her 
mate, — 

" What was the last thing that you saw ? " 
"I lay and watched the dawn begin, 

And suddenly, thro' the thatch of straw, 
A great, clear morning-star laughed in." 

" And you ? " " A floating thistle-down, 
Against June sky and cloud - wings 
white." 

" And you ? " "A falling blow, a frown — 
It frights me yet ; oh, clasp me tight ! " 



Even There yg 

"And you?" "A face thro' tears that 
smiled " — 
The trembling lips could speak no 
more ; 
The blue eyes swam ; the lonely child 
Was homesick even at heaven's door. 




SUMMER RAIN 

SAID : " Blue heaven " (Oh, it 

was beautiful !), 
"Send me a tent to shut me to 
myself : 
I am all lonely for my soul, that wanders 
Weary, bewildered, beckoned by thy 

depths j 
Thy white, round clouds, great bubbles of 

creamy snow ; 
Thy luscious sunshine, like some ripe, gold 

fruit ; 
Thy songs of birds, and wind warm with 
the flowers." 

And there swept down (Oh, it was beauti- 
ful !) 
A tent of silver rain, that fell like a veil 
Shutting me in to think all quiet thoughts, 
And feel the vibrant thrill of shadowy 
wings 

80 



Summer %ain 81 

That fluttered, checking their swift flight, 

and hear, 
Though with no syllable of earthly music, 
A voice of melody unutterable. 




A RESTING-PLACE 

SEA of shade ; with hollow 

heights above, 
Where floats the redwood's 
airy roof away, 
Whose feathery lace the drowsy breezes 
move, 
And softly through the azure windows 

play: 
No nearer stir than yon white cloud 
astray, 
No closer sound than sob of distant dove. 

I only live as the deep forest's swoon 
Dreams me amid its dream ; for all 
things fade, 
Nor pulse of mine disturbs the uncon- 
scious noon. 
Even love and hope are still — albeit 
they made 

82 



A T^esting-Place 83 

My heart beat yesterday — in slumber 
laid, 
Like yon dim ghost that last night was 
the moon. 

Only the bending grass, grown gray and 
sear, 
Nods now and then, where at my feet 
it swings, 
Pleased that another like itself is here, 
Unseen among the mighty forest 

things — 
Another fruitless life, that fading clings 
To earth and autumn days in doubt and 
fear. 

Dream on, O wood ! O wind, stay in thy 
west, 
Nor wake the shadowy spirit of the 
fern, 
Asleep along the fallen pine-tree's breast ! 
That, till the sun go down, and night- 
stars burn, 



84 A Jesting-Place 

And the chill dawn-breath from the sea 
return, 
Tired earth may taste heaven's honey-dew 
of rest. 




A MEMORY 

PON the barren, lonely hill 
We sat to watch the sinking 
sun; 
Below, the land grew dim and still, 

Whose evening shadow had begun. 
Her finger parted the shut book, — 

At Aylmer's Field the leaf was turned, — 
Round her meek head and sainted look 

The sunset like a halo burned. 
She knew not that I watched her face — 

Her spirit through her eyes was gone 
To some far-off and Sabbath place, 

And left me gazing there alone. 
Could she have known, that quiet hour, 

What ghosts her presence raised in me, 
What graves were opened by the power 

Of that unconscious witchery, 
She would not thus have sat and seen 

The bird that balanced far below 
85 



86 A Memory 

On the blue air, and watched the sheen 

Along his broad wings come and go. 
For was she not another's bride ? 

And I — what right had I to feast 
Upon those eyes in revery wide, 

With hungering gaze like famished 
beast ? 
Was it before my fate I knelt — 

The human fate, the mighty law — 
To hunger for the heart I felt, 

And love the lovely face I saw ? 
Or was it only that the brow, 

Or some sweet trick of hand or tone, 
Brought from the Past to haunt me now 

Her ghost whose love was mine alone ? 
I know not ; but we went to rest 

That eve, from songs that haunt me 
still, 
And all night long, in visions blest, 

I walked with angels on the hill. 



mmm 



THE OPEN WINDOW 

Y tower was grimly builded, 
With many a bolt and bar, 
"And here," I thought, "I will 
keep my life 
From the bitter world afar." 

Dark and chill was the stony floor, 

Where never a sunbeam lay, 
And the mould crept up on the dreary 
wall, 

With its ghost touch, day by day. 

One morn, in my sullen musings, 

A flutter and cry I heard ; 
And close at the rusty casement 

There clung a frightened bird. 

Then back I flung the shutter 
That was never before undone, 
%7 



88 The Open Window 

And I kept till its wings were rested 
The little weary one. 

But in through the open window, 

Which I had forgot to close, 
There had burst a gush of sunshine 

And a summer scent of rose. 

For all the while I had burrowed 

There in my dingy tower, 
Lo ! the birds had sung and the leaves 
had danced 

From hour to sunny hour. 

And such balm and warmth and beauty 

Came drifting in since then, 
That the window still stands open 

And shall never be shut again. 




ON A PICTURE OF MT. SHASTA 
BY KEITH 

WO craggy slopes, sheer down on 
either hand, 
Fall to a cleft, dark and confused 
with pines. 
Out of their sombre shade — one gleam 

of light — 
Escaping toward us like a hurrying child, 
Half laughing, half afraid, a white brook 

runs. 
The fancy tracks it back thro' the thick 

gloom 
Of crowded trees, immense, mysterious 
As monoliths of some colossal temple, 
Dusky with incense, chill with endless 

time : 
Thro' their dim arches chants the distant 

wind, 
Hollow and vast, and ancient oracles 
Whisper, and wait to be interpreted. 
89 



go On a Picture of Mt. Shasta 

Far up the gorge denser and darker grows 
The forest; columns lie withwrithen roots 

in air, 
And across open glades the sunbeams 

slant 
To touch the vanishing wing-tips of shy- 
birds ; 
Till from a mist-rolled valley soar the 

slopes, 
Blue-hazy, dense with pines to the verge 

of snow, 
Up into cloud. Suddenly parts the cloud, 
And lo ! in heaven — as pure as very 

snow, 
Uplifted like a solitary world — 
A star, grown all at once distinct and 

clear — 
The white earth-spirit, Shasta ! Calm, 

alone, 
Silent it stands, cold in the crystal air, 
White - bosomed sister of the stainless 

dawn, 
With whom the cloud holds converse, and 

the storm 



On a Picture of Mt. Shasta gi 

Rests there, and stills its tempest into 
snow. 

Once — you remember ? — we beheld that 

vision, 
But busy days recalled us, and the whole 
Fades now among my memories like a 

dream. 
The distant thing is all incredible, 
And the dim past as if it had not been. 
Our world flees from us ; only the one 

point, 
The unsubstantial moment, is our own. 
We are but as the dead, save that swift 

mote 
Of conscious life. Then the great artist 

comes, 
Commands the chariot wheels of Time to 

stay, 
Summons the distant, as by some austere 
Grand gesture of a mighty sorcerer's wand, 
And our whole world again becomes our 

own. 
So we escape the petty tyranny 



g2 On a Picture of Mt. Shasta 

Of the incessant hour; pure thought 

evades 
Its customary bondage, and the mind 
Is lifted up, watching the moon-like globe. 

How should a man be eager or perturbed 
Within this calm ? How should he greatly 

care 
For reparation, or redress of wrong, — 
To scotch the liar, or spurn the fawning 

knave, 
Or heed the babble of the ignoble crew ? 
Seest thou yon blur far up the icy slope, 
Like a man's footprint? Half thy little 

town 
Might hide there, or be buried in what 

seems 
From yonder cliff a curl of feathery snow. 
Still the far peak would keep its frozen 

calm, 
Still at the evening on its pinnacle 
Would the one tender touch of sunset 

dwell, 
And o'er it nightlong wheel the silent stars. 



On a Picture of Mt. Shasta g$ 

So the great globe rounds on, — moun- 
tains, and vales, 
Forests, waste stretches of gaunt rock and 

sand, 
Shore, and the swaying ocean, — league 

on league ; 
And blossoms open, and are sealed in 

frost ; 
And babes are born, and men are laid to 

rest. 
What is this breathing atom, that his 

brain 
Should build or purpose aught or aught 

desire, 
But stand a moment in amaze and awe, 
Rapt on the wonderfulness of the world ? 




THE TREE OF MY LIFE 

HEN I was yet but a child, the 
gardener gave me a tree, 
A little slim elm, to be set wher- 
ever seemed good to me. 
What a wonderful thing it seemed ! with 

its lace-edge leaves uncurled, 
And its span-long stem, that should grow 

to the grandest tree in the world. 
So I searched all the garden round, and 

out over field and hill, 
But not a spot could I find that suited my 

wayward will. 
I would have it bowered in the grove, in a 

close and quiet vale ; 
I would rear it aloft on the height, to 
wrestle with the gale. 

Then I said, " I will cover its roots with 
a little earth by the door, 
94 



The Tree of my Life 95 

And there it shall live and wait, while I 

search for a place once more. 
But still I could never find it, the place 

for my wondrous tree, 
And it waited and grew by the door, while 

years passed over me. 
Till suddenly, one fine day, I saw it was 

grown too tall, 
And its roots gone down too deep, to be 

ever moved at all. 

So here it is growing still, by the lowly 
cottage door ; 

Never so grand and tall as I dreamed it 
would be of yore, 

But it shelters a tired old man in its sun- 
shine-dappled shade, 

The children's pattering feet round its 
knotty knees have played, 

Dear singing birds in a storm sometimes 
take refuge there, 

And the stars through its silent boughs 
shine gloriously fair. 




A CHILD AND A STAR 

HE star, so pure in saintly white, 
Deep in the solemn soul of night, 
With dreams of deathless beauty 
wed, 
And golden ways that seraphs tread : 
The child — so mere a thing of earth, 
So meek a flower of mortal birth : 
A far-off lucent world, so bright, 
Stooping to touch with tender light 
That little gown at evening prayer : 
It seems a condescension rare, — 
Heaven round a common child to glow ! 
Ah ! wiser eyes of angels know 
The star, a toy but roughly wrought ; 
The child, God's own most loving thought 
Yon evening planet, wan with moons, 
Colossal, 'mid its dim, swift noons, — 
What is it but a bulk of stone, 
Like this gray globe we dwell upon ? 

96 



A Child and a Star 97 

Down hollow spaces, sightless, chill, 
Its vibrant beams in darkness thrill, 
Till thro' some window drift the rays 
Where a pure heart looks up and prays ; 
And in that silent worshipper, 
The waves of feeling stir and stir, 
And spread in wider rings above, 
To tremble at God's heart of love. 
Tho' it be kingliest one of all 
His worlds, 't is but a stony ball : 
What are they all, from sun to sun, 
But dust and stubble, when all 's done ? 
Some heavenly grace it only caught, 
When, like a hint from home, it brought 
To a child's heart one tender thought : 
Itself in that great mystery lost, 
As some bright pebble, idly tost 
Into the darkling sea at night, 
Whose widening ripples, running light, 
Go out into the infinite. 




AT DAWN 

LAY awake and listened, ere the 

light 
Began to whiten at the window 
pane. 
The world was all asleep: earth was a 

fane 
Emptied of worshippers ; its dome of night, 
Its silent aisles, were awful in their gloom. 
Suddenly from the tower the bell struck 

four, 
Solemn and slow, how slow and solemn ! 

o'er 
Those death-like slumberers, each within 

his room. 
The last reverberation pulsed so long 
It seemed no tone of earthly mould at all. 
But the bell woke a thrush; and with a 

call 
He roused his mate, then poured a tide of 
song : 

98 



At Dawn gg 

" Morning is coming, fresh, and clear, and 

blue," 
Said that bright song ; and then I thought 

of you. 



AN ADAGE FROM THE ORIENT 




T the punch-bowl's brink, 
Let the thirsty think 
What they say in Japan : 



" First the man takes a drink, 
Then the drink takes a drink, 
Then the drink takes the man ! " 
ioo 




A PARADOX 

ASTE, haste, O laggard ! — leave 
thy drowsy dreams ; 
Cram all thy brain with know- 
ledge — clutch and cram ! 
The earth is wide, the universe is vast : 
Thou hast infinity to learn. Oh, haste ! 

Haste not, haste not, my soul ! " Infin- 
ity! 5 ' 

Thou hast eternity to learn it in. 

Thy boundless lesson through the endless 
years 

Hath boundless leisure. Run not like a 
slave — 

Sit like a king, and see the ranks of worlds 

Wheel in their cycles onward to thy feet. 

IOI 




THE PHILOSOPHER 

IS wheel of logic whirled and 
spun all day ; 
All day he held his system, 
grinding it 
Finer and finer, till 't was fined away. 

But the chance sparks of sense and 

mother-wit, 
Flung out as that wheel-logic spun and 

whirled, 
Kindled the nations, and lit up the world. 

102 




A BIRD'S SONG 

HE shadow of a bird 

On the shadow of a bough ; 
Sweet and clear his song is 
heard, 
" Seek me now — I seek thee now." 
The bird swings out of reach in the sway- 
ing tree, 
But his shadow on the garden walk below 
belongs to me. 

The phantom of my Love 

False dreams with hope doth fill, 
Softly singing far above, 

" Love me still — I love thee still ! " 
The cruel vision hovers at my sad heart's 

door, 
But the soul love is soaring out of reach 
for evermore. 

J °3 




THE DEAD PRESIDENT 

ERE there no crowns on earth, 
No evergreen to weave a hero's 
wreath, 
That he must pass beyond the gates of 

death, 
Our hero, our slain hero, to be crowned ? 
Could there on our unworthy earth be 
found 
Naught to befit his worth ? 

The noblest soul of all ! 
When was there ever, since our Washing- 
ton, 
A man so pure, so wise, so patient -— 

one 
Who walked with this high goal alone in 

sight, 
To speak, to do, to sanction only Right, 
Though very heaven should fall ! 
104 



The Dead President 105 

Ah, not for him we weep ; 
What honor more could be in store for 

him ? 
Who would have had him linger in our 

dim 
And troublesome world, when his great 

work was done — 
Who would not leave that worn and weary 

one 
Gladly to go to sleep ? 

For us the stroke was just ; 
We were not worthy of that patient heart ; 
We might have helped him more, not 

stood apart, 
And coldly criticised his works and 

ways — 
Too late now, all too late — our little 
praise 
Sounds hollow o'er his dust. 

Be merciful, O our God ! 
Forgive the meanness of our human 
hearts, 



io6 Tlie Dead President 

That never, till a noble soul departs, 

See half the worth, or hear the angeFs 

wings 
Till they go rustling heavenward as he 

springs 
Up from the mounded sod. 

Yet what a deathless crown 
Of Northern pine and Southern orange- 
flower, 
For victory, and the land's new bridal- 
hour, 
Would we have wreathed for that beloved 

brow! 
Sadly upon his sleeping forehead now 
We lay our cypress down. 

O martyred one, farewell ! 
Thou hast not left thy people quite alone, 
Out of thy beautiful life there comes a 

tone 
Of power, of love, of trust, a prophecy, 
Whose fair fulfillment all the earth shall be, 

And all the Future tell. 




ROLAND 

FOOLISH creature full of fears, 

He trembled for his fate, 
And stood aghast to feel the earth 
Swing round her dizzy freight. 

With timid foot he touched each plan, 
Sure that each plan would fail ; 

Behemoth's tread was his, it seemed, 
And every bridge too frail. 

No glory of the night or day 

Lit any crown for him, 
The tranquil past but breathed a mist 

To make the future dim. 

The world, his birthright, seemed a cell, 

An iron heritage ; 
Man, a trapped creature, left to die 

Forgotten in his cage. 
107 



w8 Roland 

In every dark he held his breath, 

And warded off a blow ; 
While at his shoulder still he sought 

Some tagging ghost of woe. 

Spying the thorns but not the flowers, 
Through all the blossoming land 

He hugged his careful heart and shunned 
The path on either hand. 

The buds that broke their hearts to give 

New odors to the air 
He saw not ; but he caught the scent 

Of dead leaves everywhere. 

Till on a day he came to know 

He had not made the world ; 
That if he slept, as when he ran, 

Each onward planet whirled. 

He knew not where the vision fell, 

Only all things grew plain — 
As if some thatch broke through and let 

A sunbeam cross his brain. 



Roland log 

In beauty flushed the morning light, 
With blessing dropped the rain, 

All creatures were to him most fair, 
Nor anything in vain. 

He breathed the space that links the stars, 

He rested on God's arm — 
A man unmoved by accident, 

Untouched by any harm. 

The weary doubt if all is good, 

The douht if all is ill, 
He left to Him who leaves to us 

To know that all is well. 



ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED 
BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO. 

($fte ffitorgibe fftegg 

CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A. 



APR 25 1892 



EtiSObOTEODO 




SS3MDNOD JO AHYUSIl 



